To Hell and Back
by Lucrecia LeVrai
Summary: Albel has been accused of treason, and his world suddenly shatters. Seriousness, mild character torture, implied AlbelxNel, one sided VoxxAlbel: these are all the warnings I can think of.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: SO3 doesn't belong to me, that's all I have to say.

BlueTrillium, you have my undying gratitude for proofreading this chapter for me. I've never met an equally competent beta. I wish I could just hug you. :)

So, my summary hasn't scared you off and you're still willing to give this story a try? Good, I promise you won't regret it!

* * *

_To Hell and Back_

by Lucrecia LeVrai

* * *

Albel had never liked his meetings with the king and the other two captains, he considered most of them unnecessary and boring. He would half-heartedly listen to what was being said, and he usually left all the talking to his elders. Not because he was stupid, didn't have any opinions, or felt too insecure to voice them—no, he only kept silent because he couldn't be bothered. Long polemics were not his style. Killing was.

As usual, he was the last one to arrive, and yet he didn't even pause to apologize. He dismissed the king's sigh with a small shrug, ignored Woltar's reproachful gaze, paid even less attention to Vox's displeased frown. The three men couldn't have waited longer than five or ten minutes, anyway, and Albel was known to take even greater liberties with his watch. They must have been all used to it by now.

He swiftly closed the door behind him and took a couple of steps towards the middle of the chamber. The two other captains were already there—standing, not sitting, a clear signal that the meeting was going to be brief, albeit extremely official. Albel felt a twinge of surprise, though he saw no need to get excited, let alone worried. Proving that he was more or less familiar with the concept of court etiquette, he bowed nonchalantly in front of his liege, straightening up only a few seconds later, when Arzei started to speak.

"At last, we can begin." Much to his credit, the king managed to keep all his impatience out of his voice. "Lord Vox, you were the one who insisted that this meeting took place today, as soon as possible. Go ahead, we are listening to what you have to say."

The duke nodded. "Yes, your majesty." He looked around the room, sliding his gaze over the fellow noblemen. His eyes lingered on Albel a bit longer than it was considered polite; the young captain tilted his head to the side, wordlessly returning the unpleasant stare.

"What I am going to say next is of utmost importance," Vox spoke at last, turning back to the unmoving monarch, "and even though it nearly pains me to speak of such shameful things, I am convinced I'm acting in our country's best interests." Arzei frowned, whereas Albel merely rolled his eyes. "Two months ago, as we all know, my men captured a pair of Aquarian spies—the very ones who had been partially responsible for freeing the two infamous prisoners from our dungeon here in the capital. Those spies were then taken to the Keep at Kirlsa, and then left in Sir Shelby's care. I didn't order him to kill them immediately, for I believed we could use them to lure even more enemies into the stronghold. As it turned out, I was right. Sir Shelby set up an ambush, intending to catch all the intruders, and yet he was defeated. As a result, both captives managed to escape, along with their rescuers."

"Lord Vox," Arzei interrupted calmly. "Is there a reason for you to tell us something we already know?"

"Yes, your majesty. My reasons will soon become clear. Allow me to continue."

"Very well." The king nodded.

The captain neither smiled nor bowed. "Thank you, m'lord, for this where the tale gets interesting." He raised one of his hands into the air, as if to make sure he had the men's full attention. "Personally, I was quite shocked to discover that Sir Albel was present at the facility at that time. According to some Black Brigade soldiers, he saw his subordinates fall before his very eyes, and yet he did nothing to help them. _Moreover_," Vox pressed, ignoring the youth's startled, then absolutely murderous glare, "he let the prisoners get away without even attempting to stop them, even though the odds were clearly in his favor. On top of that, he didn't order his men to give pursuit, obviously not interested in recapturing those spies and their comrades."

"What are you insinuating?" Woltar frowned, without even pretending to sound polite.

"'Insinuating' is hardly the correct term here, Lord Woltar." Vox's gaze was equally cold. "Please, refrain from any rash judgment until you've heard the entire story."

"_You_…" Meanwhile, the crimson-eyed swordsman was at a loss for words, too furious to speak in a coherent manner. His first thought was to run the insufferable duke through with his katana, the second—return to Kirlsa as soon as possible, in order to impale all those dogs who betrayed him, cooperated with Vox behind his back. "How dare you–"

"Silence, Albel." The king's voice left very little room for argument. "Let us hear everything Duke Vox has to say."

"I won't listen to this nonsense," he snarled, turning on his heel to leave. Unfortunately, Arzei's order stopped him before he could take a single step towards the door.

"You will stay. This matter concerns you, after all."

Albel froze, a spiteful remark on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be uttered. He _really_ wanted to explain just how deeply he cared about 'this matter', and yet he had no other choice but to stay where he was, finally turning around to watch the older knight resume his speech.

"Very well, m'lord." This time, Vox nodded his head in thanks. "And speaking of Kirlsa and of Sir Shelby, I shall perhaps mention here that not only did Sir Albel refuse to summon a medic for his heavily wounded subordinate, but he also personally finished him off. Several witnesses saw that happen."

"Suited him fine," the young captain growled, the fingers of his artificial hand twitching slightly. "You turned him against me, and he–"

"Albel," Arzei leant forward in his seat, "you are to remain silent until Lord Vox is finished, do we make ourselves clear?"

The duke used the short break to continue, "Murdering a fellow nobleman in cold blood is punished by our law, and Sir Albel has to bear full responsibility, but that is beside the point right now. I'll leave it to Shelby's relatives to pursue their rights in court. What I really wanted to say is that eight days ago, yet another suspicious incident took place at the Bequerel Mines. As we know, a group of Aquarians, along with their newly found allies, raided our territory in search for copper. We had been aware of their intentions before they struck, and so I sent my riders to take care of this problem. Not a single one of these riders returned, and I find it almost impossible to believe that they were all defeated. What interests me more, however, is the part that Sir Nox played in these events. Without either informing me, or asking for my permission–"

"I don't _need_ to ask for your _permission_–"

"_Albel_."

"–he gathered a small group of soldiers and engaged the enemy on their way to Arias—at least that is what he's been telling us. Alas, the soldiers perished, and he was the only one to return alive. Naturally, the Aquarians managed to escape with their stolen cargo. It must have been their lucky day, for Sir Albel," Vox wasn't even trying to hide his sneer, "let them go for the second time!"

Albel stared at the older man in shock, mixed with blind fury. He didn't really want to believe his own ears, the implication was too absurd to be true. As much as he would like to _forget_, he could still remember _that_ one battle, the moment he had been forced to drop to his knees, the burning pain in his chest, the _humiliation_, his own words thrown back into his face, all by that blue-haired maggot– He would've gladly kept fighting, if it hadn't been for that _pitying_ look in the boy's eyes, the look he had hated more than _anything_, even than himself–

Two days ago, when he had finally returned to Airyglyph, swallowing his pride and admitting defeat before the king had been hard enough. And now… Vox was showing these events in a different, entirely wrong light, suggesting that perhaps the swordsman had fled from the fight, or that there had never been any fight at all. Needless to say, it was making Albel's blood boil.

"Whether intentional or not, such a gross dereliction of duty cannot be tolerated," the duke concluded, finally turning to meet a pair of furious eyes. "What is more, I find it hard, if not impossible to believe that these blunders were only examples of youthful carelessness; no, I believe them deliberate attempts to damage our interests while we're still at war with Aquaria. Your majesty," Vox's expression grew darker, sterner still, "I officially accuse Sir Albel Nox of treason."

A deathly silence fell in the chamber. The duke's words had momentarily left he three other men speechless. Arzei seemed to have frozen in his seat. Woltar, unusually silent from the start, was now gazing at Vox, a grim, thoughtful look on his face.

Albel, on the other hand, was almost shaking with fury.

The king was the first one to recover from his shock, and also the first one to speak. "Lord Vox," he began slowly, finally tearing his eyes away from the youngest captain, "you do realize that it is a very serious charge?"

"Yes, your majesty," the man replied in an assured, self-confident tone, "and I would have never bothered voicing it, had I felt that it was somehow unjustified."

"That's bullshit!" Albel cut in, his voice quivering with rage. "You have no right to call me a traitor!"

"Albel, calm down," Woltar spoke from his corner, without even looking at the young knight. His eyes were still fixed on the duke. "Justified, you say. And what real proof do you have? What reason to bring it up right now, when we are only a few days short of a direct attack against Aquaria?"

"That's exactly why I had to act now, before it was too late," came the cold reply, as the duke had completely ignored Albel's outburst. "We cannot afford to have a traitor in our ranks, especially not at this moment. As I already said, there were witnesses; at least seven soldiers can testify that I am telling you the truth. To me, this man's guilt remains indisputable."

Woltar said something else then, something about being reasonable, but Albel was no longer paying attention. Treason? Siding with the enemy? With those pathetic, Aquarian scum? Just _what_ did they think he had been doing for the past three months, if not risking his own life for Airyglyph? Spilling his men's blood for the sake of theirkingdom?

He had devoted his whole adult life to serving Airyglyph, and now this pathetic, cunning man had the audacity to accuse him of _treason_? Worse still, Arzei was actually _willing _to listen?

The three men were still talking, arguing about him as if he wasn't there. With a great deal of effort, Albel managed to calm himself down, even though he had had to bite his tongue in the most literal sense. Screaming at the king wouldn't do him much good, he knew, and strangling Vox was unfortunately out of the question, too.

"Well, Albel…" After a while, the king turned his troubled, uneasy eyes to the young warrior. "This is an extremely serious case, as it seems that Lord Vox's words are indeed true. Is there anything you could say to justify your behavior?"

Albel stirred. He had already suppressed his emotions, turned his livid anger into a cold fury. _I must be really masochistic to put up with this shit_, he thought grimly, looking up from the stone floor.

The king was watching him expectantly, and yet he didn't bother to return the stare. He met Vox's gaze, instead.

"Not really."

His reply had left the three other men in various states of surprise. For a brief moment, even the tall duke managed to look more disbelieving than triumphant. Albel smirked inwardly at the man's dumbstruck expression, but he realized that it might well turn out to be his only victory for today.

"Albel," Woltar frowned, frustration clearly evident in his voice, "this is not the time for a show of your nonchalance!"

"What would you like me to say, then?" The situation was serious, he knew, and yet he couldn't help but shrug. "Am I supposed to find myself an excuse? And if there's none, should I make something up?" Noticing that the old nobleman was already opening his mouth to retort, he quickly silenced him with a stiff, irritated gesture, and then turned towards the unmoving king. "This accusation is ridiculous, and we all know it. Duke Vox surely has his reasons to play such a farce. I have nothing else to say on this matter."

"A farce? Watch your tongue, _captain_."

Albel ignored the duke's chilly comment, he didn't even spare a glance in the man's direction. He kept his gaze fixed on the king's face, because he realized it was Arzei's turn to speak, and regardless of Vox's personal beliefs, the monarch still happened to be the most important person in the chamber. He was the only person capable of sentencing the young knight to death, anyway.

"You are making this difficult, Albel." Arzei leant forward, possibly trying to appear more intimidating, though he only managed to look worried. "Do you realize the gravity of these charges?"

Unfortunately, he did. Still, if any of them believed that he would actually _beg_ for his life, then they were seriously mistaken. "…Yes."

There was a brief silence, but it seemed that the king wasn't finished with him, not yet.

"Is it true that you allied yourself with Aquaria? Did you cooperate with the enemy?"

"No. That's absurd."

"Did you let the important prisoners escape from the Keep, without even trying to stop them?"

Albel bit his tongue, suppressed a hollow laugh, which threatened to overcome him. A bunch of archaic, silly words, spoken almost a decade ago, kept tugging on the edge of his consciousness. His oath of allegiance. _I shall always serve my king, fight to the last drop of blood, protect the innocent, speak nothing but the truth…_ He couldn't ignore the fact that he had already broken many parts of that vow, so why did he cling to all that was left? _Nothing but the truth…_ was it really worth signing his own death warrant?

"…Yes," he finally said, though it had cost him a lot of effort. "I did."

Vox's triumphant expression was making him sick, not to mention livid with rage. For a brief moment, he fantasized about smashing his steel fist into the man's face, crushing those pouting lips, cutting the cheeks open–

"But did you realize, at that point," Arzei's exasperated voice pulled him out of his daydream, "that your behavior was entirely inappropriate? That releasing those people was equivalent to acting against the interests of our country?"

Albel clenched his teeth. "It wasn't my intention to act against Airyglyph's interests."

"Then w_hy_, Albel?" The king pressed his fingertips against his temple, suddenly looking at least a couple of years older. "Why would you do that?"

_…unlike Vox, I take no joy in trouncing weaklings…_

His own words rang in his ears, as if they had been spoken but a moment ago, and yet the image that followed didn't quite fit his personal definition of weakness. It was that woman's face, her pale skin, elegant cheekbones, scarlet hair and a perfect body to match. Nel Zelpher, right? That Aquarian wench who had voluntarily walked into Shelby's trap, risked her life for a pair of worthless subordinates. How foolish it had been, how reckless… so reckless, in fact, that he couldn't help but admire it. She was entirely different from those frozen Airyglyph beauties, women he met in court, statues without a spark of life in them. He had seen fire in her eyes, and it hadn't been enough–

If he had fought her at that time, there was no chance in hell she could have won, even with those two blasted men by her side. She would have fallen to his blade, and then? He would've either had to kill her himself, or she would have been captured, thrown into a dungeon, left at a mercy of _a_ man like Vox… The mere thought of it made Albel shudder in uncontrollable anger and revulsion.

Naturally, he couldn't tell the king any of this. He had let the prisoners go, because he found that particular wench attractive, hadn't wanted to see her suffer at some torturer's hands? Bah, it sounded utterly ridiculous, even to his own ears. He knew he would only make a fool of himself, and so he stubbornly pressed his lips together, remained silent in spite of Arzei's growing displeasure.

"How are we supposed to understand your lack of reply? Do you confess to being a traitor?"

"No."

"You are not making it any easier, Albel," the monarch eventually lost his patience, clearly frustrated with the knight's uncooperativeness. Albel didn't lower his head, he kept staring at the older man. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a flicker of hesitation in the king's eyes, but he knew better than to delude himself—the verdict had already fallen. "We have no other choice but to treat Lord Vox's accusation with utmost seriousness. The ultimate penalty for treason is death–"

It took him a moment to realize what was going on, though. Arzei's words were reaching him through a thick haze of disbelief and denial.

He would die over something as stupid as this…?

"–however, we are still inclined to believe that perhaps no ill will, but your typical lack of forethought is to blame for your actions. Until we have the time to investigate it further, you will remain imprisoned, awaiting your trial."

Once again, Albel wanted to laugh. A _trial_? Didn't this fool see that it was all set up, that Vox would only be satisfied with his death? That these charges were nothing but an excuse to get rid of an irritating rival?

"Your majesty," as if on cue, the duke spoke, "we are currently at war, and we do not have time for long procedures. I can already see that my words have sown the seeds of doubt in your mind, so why do you hesitate? Is it some misplaced sympathy that tells you to spare this man's life?"

"He is a _nobleman_, Vox, and we can't sentence him to death straight away, like some common criminal. At the very least, he deserves a fair trial."

"Lord Woltar is right," Arzei spoke, silencing both knights with a gesture. "According to the law, as long as Albel claims that he is innocent, he remains innocent. There will be no execution, however, I have no choice but to imprison him." He shook his head. "Guards!"

Two soldiers entered the chamber, swiftly, yet obviously not in a hurry, because the king's tone had been calm. They stopped by the door, bowed with a clanking of armor, and then froze in anticipation. Arzei turned his gaze to the slender captain.

"Your sword, Albel."

The order actually had to be repeated, before these words could fully register in Albel's brain. Ever so slowly, he let his good hand drop to the hilt, clenched his fingers around its smooth texture. Somewhere behind his back, the guards shifted uncomfortably, probably sensing what was going on. Albel smirked. These maggots had every right to feel afraid. If he didn't surrender his arms peacefully, chose to fight his way out, instead… Well, it would mean some people's guts decorating the floor in next to no time, and generally the biggest slaughter this castle had ever seen. Everyone in the chamber was perfectly aware of that—even Vox, who did nothing to hide his own fingers, currently tracing the hilt of his sword.

Stifling a cold laugh for hell only knew what time today, Albel unfastened the weapon from his waist, weighed the sheathed blade in his hand. And then, in one precise, deliberate movement, he flung the sword at Arzei's feet. It hit the floor with a sharp clang, stopping but a few inches away from the throne. Everyone—everyone except Vox and Albel, that is—breathed a more or less noticeable sigh of relief.

"There goes my proof of loyalty," the young captain announced coldly, turning away from the silent king. He took no pleasure from watching the torn expression on the man's face, and he most certainly didn't want anyone to see the look in his own eyes, when Arzei finally gave his order.

* * *

To Be Continued…

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Author's Notes: I've made Albel into such an honorable knight, really. *rolls eyes* Now, what do you think, is this fic even _worth_ continuing?


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Ladies and Gentlemen, I wasn't joking about any of the warnings in my summary. Vox is homosexual in this fic. Albel isn't—he happens to be a poor, straight guy who ended up in a dungeon because of his unexpected infatuation with Nel. Don't even think of flaming me and my sick mind, just keep reading. ;) Contrary to what you fear/expect, this story doesn't contain any explicit yaoi. I wanted it to be a bit unsettling, not dripping with gay eroticism.

(…Oh, but I will _surely_ write an M-rated fic about Vox and a much younger Albel later. Muahahaha. Sue me. XD)

As for Albel's supposedly nonexistent left arm, I admit I took the liberty of twisting the canon a bit. I've seen it done before, and with good results, so I hope you won't mind.

Enjoy!

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He had no idea how much time he had already spent in this hellish place. It surely felt like ages, even though, in reality, it couldn't have been more than a day, perhaps a day and a half. Of course, there was no way of telling. The torture chamber had no windows, and the door was far too thick for him to hear any of the guards outside.

He hadn't struggled during his arrest, in the king's presence, but later, when they insisted that he remove _all_ of his weapons—the steel gauntlet included—things had gotten a bit out of control. As a result, one soldier had lost his eye, two had walked away with broken limbs, and the fourth one had quickly been forced to consult a medic about the deep gashes running across his stomach. Albel, on the other hand, woke up in shackles, without his claw, yet with a beautiful bump the size of a plum on the back of his head. They must have hit him with something hard, he assumed, probably the blunt tip of a mace.

He wished he could touch the bruise, check if there was no blood, but with his arms spread like this, it was impossible. The metal chains held him firmly; almost too loose on his slender wrists, yet at the same time irremovable. He could barely shrug his shoulders, and the stretched spine was already killing him. His feet hurt, too, weighted down by irons, forced to support his weight all the time. Hell, even the fingers of his right hand had already gone numb from the cold—much to his relief, the cell wasn't dark, but the little oil lamps on the walls provided very little comfort, as far as the temperature was concerned.

He was used to discomfort, but these conditions were ridiculous. He knew he wouldn't last long without food, a piece of warm clothing, a chance to close his eyes and sleep like a normal human being. What point was there in promising him a _trial_, if he was unlikely to live long enough to see it? Surely they didn't intend to keep him like this any longer? Maybe they—ah, screw 'they', it was obvious who stood behind all this—maybe Vox simply intended to break him?

The mere thought of Vox made his blood boil. He had disliked the man ever since he cared to remember, and now his dislike had grown tenfold, turning into pure hatred. He was aware that the antagonism had always been mutual, but would've never imagined that the duke could stoop so low, use such a cheap excuse to get rid of him. And for what reason? He didn't know the man too well, had no idea what went inside of his head, and yet he found it hard to believe that Vox considered this so-called treason a fact. No, there must have been a different motive, a lust for power, perhaps… As if the man didn't have enough power already! He had his rank among the military, thousands of soldiers to command, a considerable fortune… and, as it turned out, he even had the king wrapped around his little finger.

Vox's accusation had come unexpected, but it was nowhere near as shocking as Arzei's betrayal. So _this_ was the king he had sworn to protect, the man he had—only a little, but still—respected, perhaps even trusted? The man he had served for years, snapping back at the most unpleasant of orders… and carrying them out, nonetheless? Wait, it no longer mattered, did it? A single word from Vox was enough to make Arzei _forget_, to make him hide in a convenient shell of cowardice.

Albel knew he would have felt furious with the king's choice—if only he hadn't felt so utterly disappointed.

* * *

In the dead silence of the dungeon, a creak from the heavy oak door had been startling. Albel, previously drifting somewhere between awareness and a hazy dream, slowly came back to his senses. He looked up, turning his head to the right and squinting his eyes against the bright light that came from the corridor, partially blocked by a tall, bulky figure.

Even half-blinded and half-conscious, Albel didn't really have to _guess_ to know who it was. As much as it enraged him to see the man here, this moment had been inevitable. He forced himself to ignore the pain in his limbs, to wake up and focus. And he strained his ears to listen.

"…It's too dark in here," Vox was saying. "Bring me a lamp."

The order had been carried out swiftly; a moment later, the duke was already walking down the steps, a large, oil lantern swinging gently in one of his hands. The door closed behind him with another creak, leaving the two men alone.

Albel cursed under his breath. In the dim glow of the lamp, he could see Vox's half-serious, half-satisfied face. It seemed that the knight was torn between showing his contentment and keeping up the appearances. Why he would bother with the latter, Albel had no idea. Nobody could possibly overhear their conversation… if Vox was here to _converse_, that is. A chilly shiver ran down the young man's spine, but he refused to feel intimidated.

He finally tore his eyes from his 'guest', fixing his gaze on the opposite wall, instead. He knew such ostentatious disregard was sure to piss the man, and honestly, he couldn't care less.

"It's amazing how swiftly the tables turn."

This mocking voice was all it took to make him lose his composure, though, and he whirled his head to meet the speaker's gaze. "I'd keep these words in mind, if I were you," he spat, each word dripping with unreserved hatred. "I'm not dead yet."

"Pathetic," Vox sighed, putting his lantern down on a small table, where various instruments of torture already lay. "Even now, you dare to threaten me? Look at yourself, Albel. You're at my mercy. Still alive, perhaps, but soon you'll be begging for a swift, painless execution." When the chained warrior didn't reply, he finished, "Unless you plead guilty at once. In that case, I'd be inclined to spare you the unnecessary suffering."

"Plead guilty…?" He couldn't help but chuckle, and yet his laugher lasted no more than a couple of seconds, ending almost as abruptly as it had started. "Over my dead body."

"That can be arranged. You won't survive a month in this dungeon, trust me."

Crimson eyes narrowed into slits. "I'll survive as long as it takes to see your head rolling at my feet."

"You had your chance two days ago, before you landed down here." Vox shrugged in mock pity, finally lifting his gaze from a particularly nasty pair of iron pliers. "Right now, there's really nothing you can do. If you believe in Apris or any other god, I suggest that you start praying."

Albel clenched his teeth. Yes, he was _definitely_ having second thoughts about not trying to murder the duke when he had had the chance. Then again, Vox had it all planned, hadn't he? He had purposely made a scene in front of Arzei, because he knew that Albel would never, ever draw his sword against the king, self-defense or not. Screw his oath of allegiance and all that—it was just something Glou Nox would never have done.

"Who told you about Kirlsa?" he spoke at last.

"Your soldiers, of course."

"I'm asking about their names."

"Why, so you could have your revenge? You still hope that you will leave this place alive?" The duke raised an eyebrow, pretending to look surprised. "You're even more naive than I thought."

"Just answer the damn question!" he snarled, lunging forward in an automatic, aggressive, entirely useless gesture. The shackles held him in place, and he only managed to stumble and make a fool of himself.

"I won't bother wasting my breath," came Vox's cold reply. "Don't worry, though. These men are not getting any rewards. If they had no qualms about betraying you, they probably won't hesitate to betray me, either. I'd rather not surround myself with disloyal dogs." He paused abruptly. "Enough of this nonsense. I didn't come here in person to discuss such irrelevant things." He swiftly crossed the remaining distance between the long-haired warrior and himself. "Tell me, Albel, do you even know why you are here?"

"Why I am here?" Another hollow chuckle echoed of the chamber's walls. "I'm a _traitor_, have you already forgotten?"

Vox chose to ignore the sarcasm. For a long moment, he studied his prisoner in silence, sliding his gaze over the mutilated remains of the youth's left hand, suspended limply by a chained, equally immobile wrist.

"You're here because I grew tired of your attitude, _boy_," he hissed at last, the sudden change in his tone startling, almost frightening. "Your complete disregard for my orders, all those snorts behind my back, your contemptuous stares… What gave you the right to look down on me?" He smirked then, voice yet again changing, dripping with acid, "Wait, you didn't actually think that you would make a better Captain of the Dragon Brigade? You, who have disgraced yourself, failed the Accession of the Flame?"

"_You son of a_–"

Albel was never given the opportunity to finish. Vox gloved hand fell on his lips, shoved him against the wall, effectively muffling his cry of outrage. The other hand grabbed his left arm—he couldn't feel the duke's fingers clench around his burnt flesh, but he saw it happen, and a second later his shoulder was violently jerked to the side.

"Ah, but let's not beat around the bush," Vox all but snarled, each rapid word like a blow to the other man's chest. "You aren't interested in political power, not envious of my position, I can easily tell that much. No, boy, your problem lies somewhere else! It's about your father, isn't it?" Albel's eyes widened in shock, but he couldn't stop the duke from continuing, "That man's been dead for _years_, and still, you refused to acknowledge me as your commanding officer, kept sulking like a little child! Why? Do you think that perhaps Glou Nox was the only one worthy of this post? That his quarters at the castle should have forever remained empty, seeing that you were unable to claim them as your own?"

Albel was breathing heavily against the man's hand, unable to do anything but _glare_, unwilling to admit—even before himself—that everything Vox said was essentially true.

"That's what you get for defying me, _boy_." The duke pressed forward, until their eyes were no more than inches apart. "Remember our conversation from six years ago, the first time you dared to threaten me? The things you said back then, and my reply? I told you I always got what I wanted, and here's the proof. In one way or other, you'll pay for your impertinence."

The gloved hand was lifted from Albel's face, but the young warrior didn't even notice. He froze as a long-forgotten memory finally became whole—an early afternoon in the castle, a terrified, struggling pageboy in Vox's arms, his own voice telling the duke to let go, the man's anger, all the words that followed, a threat born out of desire and his own answer, _I'm not your pageboy, Vox_–

Vox's lips fell on his mouth a second later, hitting him in a violent, sadistic kiss that had nothing to do with love and tenderness, yet everything with lust and revenge. Immobilized between the cold wall and the powerful knight, Albel didn't struggle, didn't even think to close his eyes. His mind felt numb; it was impossible to realize that all of this was happening, that another man was indeed forcing himself on him, touching him like that, one step short of–

Something inside him snapped, and the world got off like a shot, rapidly gaining speed, fueled by suffocation and fury. Adrenaline kicked in, forcing him to act, to resist, to_ get-the-man-off-him_–

Vox broke the kiss with a foul curse, stumbling a couple of feet backwards. His fingers instantly flew to his face, where there was blood flowing from his torn lip, painting his chin crimson, dripping onto his dark tunic. He began to cough it up, but it kept flooding his mouth for quite a long while. The bite had been hard, and by no means hesitant.

Neither amused nor too triumphant, Albel stared at the entire scene, breathing heavily. His own chin was also stained, but unlike Vox, he didn't have a spare hand, let alone a handkerchief to wipe the blood away. He could only lick his teeth and spit at the ground. It didn't help much.

Vox recovered a few minutes later, straightening up to meet his prisoner's gaze. He had already managed to clean himself; the ruined handkerchief lay on the table, next to the burning lantern. "Hmph," he said at last. "Figures."

"Six years ago," Albel's words were quiet, but the lack of volume didn't make them sound any less deadly, "I told you I was _not_ into these things."

"Yes," Vox finally replied, dark humor ringing in his voice. "I can see it now."

The blow came in full force, without warning, landing directly on his stomach. Albel would have vomited if he had anything to vomit with, in the first place. After two days of involuntary starvation, he could only gag and sputter, arms twitching as his body all but attempted to curl itself up.

Vox waited patiently until the young man was done choking, and then grabbed him by the blonde hair at the nape of his neck, yanking it backwards, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Do you realize it now?" His voice was oddly calm. "I could do anything I wanted, take you however I saw fit, regardless of your obvious lack of cooperation. Then I could kill you, or leave you here to rot." He paused, sliding his gaze over Albel's stained lips. "Fortunately for you, I no longer want to. Seems like your looks aren't really worth it."

"It doesn't matter, Vox," he gasped, still a bit dizzy from the pain. "You have already signed your own death warrant."

The duke shrugged, "As I said, you are much more naive than I thought."

"I still breathe, and you can't kill me right now without raising too many questions." Ever so slowly, he managed to calm himself down, regain his icy composure. "You won't be the one to judge me for my supposed treason, either. There's a good chance that I'll leave this place stripped of my title, in infamy, but _alive_… and I really wouldn't like to be you when that happens."

"Your chances are rather slim," the duke snorted in reply. "Don't you understand that no one, not even Woltar, is going to raise a finger to help you out of this?"

"We'll see."

"Don't delude yourself." Vox let go of his hair, taking a few slow steps back. "It's already over for you. I'll make sure the king signs _your_ death warrant before this month ends. First things first, though." He reached into the folds of his tunic, producing a rolled piece of paper. "Do you know what this is?"

"I can guess," Albel answered dryly.

"Then your guess is probably correct, I won't bother reading it to you. Basically, it states that you have indeed betrayed the Kingdom of Airyglyph, and that you thoroughly regret it. It will spare the king the time to deal with you, and ensure your swift and painless execution."

"You _really_ expect me to put my name on this?"

"No." Vox's face was a mask of seriousness. "I expect you to put up a fight first. But as I said, you won't last a month in this dungeon, so you might as well spare everyone the trouble and cooperate from the beginning. Trust me, it'll be _much_ easier this way. Especially for you."

Albel made sure to meet the duke's eyes when he replied, in a cold and equally serious voice, "Go fuck yourself."

"Fine." The man didn't look particularly offended, or too surprised with this choice. "Have it your way. I'm sure you won't find your stay here boring." He turned back to leave, picking the oil lamp off the table. "I'll send a certain someone to keep you company. Enjoy yourself."

"…Vox."

"What is it?" Already at the top of the stairs, the duke didn't even bother to turn around, though he did pause in his footsteps. "Have you changed your mind so soon? I expected more bravery from you."

"No," Albel finally said. "Personal stuff aside, you did this because you wanted the soldiers for yourself, didn't you? Or at least a commander you could manipulate?"

"Correct. Your men will be a valuable asset in this war. And it's true that I'd rather deal with a captain who knows and remembers his place," the lord finished, a thin, unpleasant smile on his lips. "Now excuse me. I have more important business to attend to."

The heavy door fell back into place with an ominous crack.

* * *

To Be Continued…

* * *

Author's Notes: Poor, poor Albel indeed. Congratulations on reaching the end of this chapter. Any opinions/suggestions? I certainly wouldn't mind getting a few hot flames. :D

Seriously, though, I'd like to thank all those people who took the time to review my fic last time. Your encouraging comments mean a lot, they give me the necessary motivation. Same goes for contructive criticism. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: I apologize for the inhumanly long wait. :) Does anyone still remember this story? If you do, rest assured: I'm not going to abandon it, I just had some trouble completing this chapter. Contrary to what I used to think a year ago, writing about Albel being tortured is _not_ a pleasant experience. Hence my reluctance to get down to work, and then finish things.

Once again, BlueTrillium did a wonderful job of fixing my grammar mistakes and occasional typos. Remember, if you need a great beta... just leave her alone, because I'm sure as hell not going to share her with anyone. :)

Many thanks for all the reviews I've received so far. I'm sorry I didn't reply to every single one of them, but they've all been read, analyzed and stored in memory for further use. :) I'm grateful for all your support, and even more happy that you're here right now, still interested in my fic.

* * *

After the duke had finally left, Albel was given quite a lot of time to stare at the opposite wall and contemplate the infuriating hopelessness of his situation. This was, no doubt, yet another part of Vox's strategy, an unsophisticated but efficient type of mental torment. Tell your exhausted prisoner that the torturer would come soon, and then leave them waiting for hours, so that they might go half-insane from fear mixed with false relief, or at least reconsider their resolve to resist. Some people might have snapped right away, Albel figured; brought to the verge of despair by their own imagination, begging for mercy at the very first sight of the Inquisitor…

It wasn't going to work in his case, though. He didn't look forward to being tortured, for sure, but he had already sworn to himself that he would sooner rot in this place for the rest of his days than choose the easy way out, a semi-painless death on a scaffold. Signing the prepared document, confessing to a crime he had never committed was simply out of the question, especially considering the nature of these accusations. Albel knew he couldn't just go down without a fight, let alone tarnish his family name by making himself a traitor, even if it was only a declaration made on paper. He would never, ever give Vox the satisfaction.

The young captain didn't care much about the role his family had played in the history of Airyglyph. The things that mattered to him most were based on 'here' and 'now', and so the portraits of his noble great-great-ancestors that decorated his mansion's walls held almost no interest for him. He actually spat and snickered every time some ignorant courtier addressed him using the word 'milord'—he was a military commander, for hell's sake, not a bloody aristocrat. Besides, Albel had met enough people with so-called special backgrounds, people who could only be described as worthless trash, to realize that a person's value often had absolutely nothing to do with their inherited name. He also knew, having seen it with his own eyes quite a few times before, that an ill-conceived notion of honor could easily lead to idiotic mistakes, huge disasters, or meaningless sacrifices.

Nevertheless, it didn't even cross the young man's mind to regard his resolve as a meaningless sacrifice. He was determined to bear all sorts of torture and fight Vox to the last breath. Pain and death didn't mean as much to him as signing—or rather, _not_ signing—the fabricated confession.

Ironically enough, his own honor was almost nonexistent. He had already disgraced himself by failing that fateful ceremony nine years ago, rendered his own life useless by making his father die in his place, and the huge amount of regret and self-loathing that still lingered in his heart didn't make the final outcome any different. He had never been the ideal well-mannered lad his mother had wanted him to be, either; not that _that_ had ever given him sleepless nights. He had killed indiscriminately, dared to show open disrespect to the king, treated women like disposable toys. It was because he had always lived for himself, he figured, not for other people's sake. He couldn't care less about his reputation in some maggots' eyes… and yet certain things were just painfully clear to him.

Glou Nox had been perhaps the only person whose opinion had truly mattered to him. In a way, the man's death hadn't changed a thing in that aspect. He had become his son's conscience, or whatever was left of it; a voice at the back of his head he couldn't simply ignore. His dubious honor aside, Albel felt that to die as the last descendant of his family, with the glaring mark of a traitor metaphorically branded on his forehead, would be equivalent to spitting on his father's grave.

From Vox's point of view, it had to be much simpler than that. Yes, Albel's arrest was undoubtedly a source of personal triumph for the duke, and some sadistic part of him surely wanted to see his imprisoned rival put up a long fight and suffer the consequences, but at the same time, he probably didn't give a damn about the younger man's inner struggle, his honor, or the lack thereof. Albel wasn't hopelessly ignorant, despite Woltar's teasing claims otherwise. He knew damn well why Vox didn't seem interested in prolonging his own little game, or why he cared about Albel's forced declaration so much. After all, there was a huge difference between executing a confessed traitor, and a man who stubbornly claimed to be innocent. Arzei might have believed in the ridiculous accusations, but he was not blind, and he probably still had his doubts, which was why he had insisted on giving his knight a proper trial as soon as possible. The majority of the king's doubts, however, could be dispelled with a single signature. Albel's confession would justify the charges and give Vox a reason to skip the lengthy procedures and execute the young man on the spot. He wouldn't have to deal with difficult questions from Woltar and other people, but most importantly, he would save time.

Airyglyph was currently in the midst of war, and under these circumstances, every single day mattered. Vox must have already seized control of the Black Brigade, but as long as the younger captain's status remained unclear, the troops' loyalty could only be described as questionable. Albel realized that he had never been _loved_ by his subordinates, but at least he had earned himself a healthy dose of fear and a small amount of respect. Most probably, his soldiers kept asking themselves not whether their commander was really guilty, but whether he would ever be coming back from the dungeons. From their point of view, it had to be the most important question; after all, they had to choose the lesser of the two evils. If Albel were to be executed, there was little sense in opposing Vox now, for it would mean a death sentence for them as well. On the other hand, if they decided to follow the new captain eagerly, without a single word of complaint, they risked facing Lord Nox's wrath, should he ever be acquitted and released. Albel himself knew that they had every reason to be terrified of this possibility. He didn't care about his men's blind obedience, and found an open rebellion against the powerful noble a very unlikely scenario, but at the same time, he despised traitors and gutless idiots who placed their own survival and convenience above everything else.

He didn't hate them even half as much as he hated Vox, of course; the foul bastard who had to resort to trickery, all in the name of gaining more authority. Albel himself had never been interested in _power_ as the object of ultimate victory; the insignia that marked his status as the captain of Airyglyph's infantry had been but a pretty trinket to him, not something he would wear unless absolutely necessary, and yet the mere thought of his rival holding it in his grasp was making him furious. So easily—too easily—the man had taken Glou's position, and now he had stolen Albel's own. It went beyond saying that _he_ was the real traitor, the person who deserved to be rotting in these dungeons, chained like a dog and starving.

Although… there was a treacherous voice at the back of Albel's mind that dared to question this straightforward train of logic. He couldn't ignore the fact that Vox had been able to seize both things with so little effort, which in turn made him wonder if _he_ was at fault… if he hadn't just _enabled_ the man to fulfill his ambitions.

* * *

The dungeon was completely cut off from the outside reality, and even time obeyed different rules in this place—it moved in rapid jolts, like a skittish mount, often slowing down to a standstill, until you could choke on it, only to jerk away a moment later. Physical discomfort, thirst and starvation had taken their toll on Albel's body, and yet anger, directed at Vox, at himself, at _everything_, kept him awake in spite of his fatigue. Still, he had no idea how long he had been forced to wait until the door opened once again. It might have been anything from thirty minutes to three hours. The prisoner didn't care either way.

Knowing exactly what to expect from the sound of the badly oiled hinges, he reluctantly raised his head. His guess had been correct. It was the Chief Inquisitor.

Albel had seen the man only a couple of times before, because the torturer hardly ever left his private kingdom underneath the castle. Ostracized, ridiculed and feared by those around him, he had no other choice but to keep to the shadows, like some sort of a twisted cavern troll. He actually looked like one; stout and deformed, wearing a hideous mask that made him resemble a smiling monster. No doubt it left an indelible impression on the majority of his victims, and yet, as the Inquisitor slowly walked down the steps of the cold dungeon, Albel couldn't help but wonder at his own indifference.

Given the circumstances, he knew he was _supposed_ to quiver in fear, or at least feel slightly intimidated, just like dozens of his nameless predecessors. Even if the torturer was more disgusting than scary, the instruments he carried demanded a great deal of respect, not to mention appealed to every dimwit's imagination. Still, Albel's feelings at the moment had little to do with fear. He was filled with cold rage, some sort of hatred he had never experienced before. His anger was usually easily-triggered and passionate, but _this_ was something different, and it could only be compared to his heart completely freezing over.

He closed his eyes and swore, on a god he didn't really believe in, that if he were ever to leave this dungeon as a free man, he would do _everything_ in his power to bring Vox down, no matter the cost.

Meanwhile, the Inquisitor must have misinterpreted the gesture as a clear sign of weakness. Placing his tools on the table, he chuckled, "Wishing you were somewhere else, already? We haven't even gotten properly acquainted with each other, _Lord Nox_," the title was spoken mockingly, without a trace of respect, "but I'm sure we'll have plenty of time for that."

Albel reopened his eyes, still deathly calm, to find the torturer standing right in front of him. They were almost of the same height, yet the leather mask the other wore made his expression impossible to read. It would be safe to assume, however, that the man was smiling underneath his artificial grimace, because his very posture radiated satisfaction and self-amusement.

The Inquisitor was believed to love his job. Rumors spoke of his cruelty, ruthlessness, the perverse pleasure he derived from inflicting pain. His day was incomplete without some blood on his hands. He supposedly ate human flesh and did other sickening things… Come to think of it, the same things were often said about Albel the Wicked. The young noble couldn't care less—and he was rather glad, because it kept people at a distance—but he wouldn't stand being compared to a mere torturer, behind his own back or not. Several maggots had learnt this fact in a painful way. He had usually corrected them with a well-aimed hit to their face, or at least a couple of scathing words.

There was a huge difference between tormenting sniveling worms in some rotten dungeon, and cutting your way through them on a battlefield. Albel knew he was _nothing_ like the man in front of him. The man who had just leant closer and mocked, "I guess you're not in a very talkative mood, but that doesn't matter. My toys can eventually loosen anyone's tongue. It would seem that Lord Vox has other plans for you, though."

Albel felt his blood boil once again at the mere mentioning of the duke's name, as it brought back hateful memories of their recent encounter; the kiss, in particular. He clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to spit at the Inquisitor's face—his own mouth seemed too dry for that, anyway. How long had it been since he had last drunk? It was best not to even think about it; the very idea of water made him feel ten times worse. By the look of things, he was bound to pass out from general exhaustion sooner than from any actual torture. The Inquisitor's next words almost confirmed this.

"It's such a pity I'm not allowed to use my favorite whip on you… but I digress." The man paused and drew back, apparently a bit disappointed. "Lord Vox sends you his kindest regards and reminds you of a certain document you might be willing to sign. It's right here with me. Say the word and we won't have to continue."

Albel's voice sounded strained from the recent lack of usage, yet it certainly wasn't hesitant. "Tell Vox to stick it high up his ass."

No doubt very few people had the audacity to speak about the duke in such crude terms, because the torturer was momentarily speechless, his little eyes blazing with rage and surprise. There was a brief pause, and then, sure enough, a heavy fist connected with the young man's temple. The blow had been expected, almost anticipated, but that didn't make it any less painful. Albel's head fell down, just in time for him to see another fist landing right beneath his ribcage. And another.

For a while he could only stare at the floor and concentrate all his efforts on breathing. It probably wouldn't have hurt so much if his chest hadn't been bruised already; a sad testimony to his fight against that blue-haired maggot, less than two weeks ago. Back then, he had ignored his wounds, too furious to treat them with anything but minimal care… and now was in for an extra share of pain.

The Inquisitor's voice rang above him, "You are one lippy dog, aren't you?"

"Watch your tongue, _knave_," Albel growled at once, forcing himself to look up. Being insulted by Vox was one thing, but this worm had no right to talk like this to him.

The torturer's mask stretched into a long, thin smile. "Have I just hit a sore spot…? You might've been an important figure up there,_ Lord Nox_," he chuckled, pointing his chin at the ceiling, "but _down here_, there are no lords and commoners… or should we rather say, _I_ am the only lord in this place."

"You are nothing but Vox's lapdog," Albel spat, already unable to contain the rage swelling within him. "A disgusting piece of shit on his heels–"

He wasn't given the opportunity to finish; a new series of blows came, knocking him breathless in spite of his best intentions to continue. It seemed that the Inquisitor was more concerned about his own pathetic pride than about the duke's honor, because his hits were faster, more powerful than before. Still, the man clearly knew what he was doing – none of these punches were aimed at the prisoner's head, as if to keep him conscious.

A small part of Albel's mind registered the torturer's professionalism with cool detachment, while at the same time his legs gave up, and he sank down at last, still awake but no longer able to stay upright. Of course, the shackles around his wrists kept him in place, stretched like a parody of a cross. The Inquisitor saw this and stepped back, perhaps to view his handiwork from a distance.

"I don't take too kindly to impudence. You'll learn that simple fact soon enough."

Albel didn't bother to reply, especially because there wasn't any air left in his lungs. He only lifted his head to glare at the torturer. There was nothing but hatred in his crimson eyes, along with the promise of a slow, painful death. This expression must have seemed pathetic on a man who was currently too exhausted to stand, but still, the Inquisitor found himself looking away for a moment.

"You live up to your reputation, I'll give you that." The hesitation was gone, and the man chuckled. "But I _will_ see you break, it's just a matter of time. I'm actually looking forward to it."

By now Albel had gathered enough strength to haul himself back to his feet. It allowed him to stare down at the leather-clad man, though not for long.

"So…" The Inquisitor took a step forward. "Any second thoughts about that document Lord Vox wants you to sign?"

"Fuck off."

The large fist once again landed in the middle of Albel's stomach. His vision swam, in and out of focus, but he was still able to hear the tormentor's voice. "How about now?" When there was no reply, another blow pushed him against the wall. "And now?" A pause, another strike. "Perhaps now…?"

Albel lost his consciousness somewhere after the sixth hit, but he was quickly brought back to reality by a sharp smack to his face.

"Ah, don't faint on me, yet," the Inquisitor said, cracking his knuckles with a grin. "I've just started to warm up."

* * *

His current reawakening seemed slightly different than the last one, not only because it wasn't accompanied by a new stab of pain and the torturer's taunts. The first thing Albel noticed was the absence of chains that would keep his arms outstretched. He welcomed this improvement with a groan of relief. Opening his eyes, he found himself lying on a large pile of rotten straw in one of the regular cells. The foul stench of urine was almost unbearable; he swore and tried to sit up, or at least raise his head a bit higher. A wave of dizziness washed over him, pinning him to the ground, but he was eventually able to gather enough strength to push himself up, until he could rest his back against one of the walls.

He realized that he wasn't exactly free: his wrists were still bound in front of him, this time with a regular rope. At least it was a minor discomfort compared to the previous few… days? Albel stifled a hollow laugh. How much time could have passed since he had first woken up in the dungeon? How many times had the Inquisitor brought him around, before he had been finally allowed to faint for good? How long before someone came to drag him back to the torture chamber? He knew he was too weak to stand up, let alone fight against the guards. Screw the searing pain in his stomach; his _thirst_ would kill him faster, unless some of these maggots had been blessed with enough sense to leave him something to drink…

A pair of tired eyes looked round the cell, and then eventually fell on a clay jug in the opposite corner. Weary or not, Albel was there in just a few seconds, downing at least half of the water in one gulp. The burning pain in his throat had lessened; he could finally cough and lick his wet lips. By now, he had also noticed some bread and a bowl of fish soup lying next to him. The food looked about as inviting as only a prison meal might look, which was to say absolutely disgusting. Its flavor could be described in similar terms. It tasted much worse than anything Albel had eaten before, even that one winter when he had been seven years old, and the whole of Airyglyph had been starving, peasants and noblemen alike. He had to resist the urge to spit as he took the first mouthful of the cold goo, but in the end he devoured it all in less than five minutes, in spite of his tied and aching hands. Hunger had made him quite swift and undiscriminating.

The small portion wasn't enough to give the starved young man a lasting feeling of satiety, but of course it was better than nothing. Albel's head had stopped spinning, and he could finally catch his breath, both literally and metaphorically speaking. He shifted into a more comfortable position, once again resting his back against the nearest wall. The stone was cold to the touch and damp with moisture, not that it came as any surprise, let alone made a big difference in this shitty hellhole. At least the straw on the ground provided some semblance of comfort, if you were willing to ignore the smell.

Albel swore and looked up to study his surroundings. He _hated_ to be here, not only because of the obvious pain, hunger and disgrace, but also because of the fact that he had fallen prey to Vox's scheming so easily. His own future mattered very little to him; naturally, he wished to survive and have his revenge, but if Arzei decided to execute him for treason, so be it—he would die with his head up high; that was the only thing he truly cared about. For now, however, he couldn't stand wasting his time. There was a bloody war against Aquaria going on outside these walls, and he was left to rot here on the eve of the most decisive attack so far, completely useless, missing all the excitement, knowing that one of _Vox's _puppets would command the Black Brigade. The duke probably meant to use the armored infantry as cannon fodder, a shield for the dragon riders. Albel didn't give a damn about some maggots' lives, but on the other hand, those were _his_ men, _his_ property and responsibility. Vox had no right to give them orders, use them in his mad quest for power.

Albel swore loudly for the second time, biting back a scream of outrage. It was too late. Given the circumstances, he couldn't do a thing to change the course of oncoming events. Hell, he couldn't even stand up; he certainly didn't feel like trying unless it became absolutely necessary. Moving around seemed such a ridiculous waste of energy. Everything hurt, from his swollen face to a few heavily bruised ribs. He tried flexing his tied arms, wincing in pain only a moment later. The muscles were stiff, throbbing with a dull ache, almost unwilling to cooperate; exactly the same could be said about his spine, neck and legs. The beatings he had received hadn't been _that_ terrible, and yet almost three days spent without food in those chains had temporarily robbed him of a great deal of his former strength.

Pain, in itself, was nothing new. In spite of his high social position, Albel was not a delicate lord used to luxury. No, he was more than just familiar with cuts and scratches, serious wounds, sleeping on the ground, sparse meals, let alone exhaustive training. He would often willingly push his body to the limits of human endurance, and he loved it. _This_, on the other hand, was a different kind of physical ache. Normal pain would wash over him and vanish, leaving him stronger and feeling more alive than before. It never lingered for so long, seeping into his bones, draining all power from his limbs, making him weak and vulnerable…

The young knight snorted and clenched his teeth, as if trying to dispel this train of thought. His head fell forward, and for a long moment he stared blankly at his reddened wrists, at the three remaining fingers of his left hand. It was a disgusting sight: scarred skin, no nails… in a way much more repulsive than the sharp claw that usually covered these stubs. Most people would find themselves averting their eyes rather quickly, but then again, it had never been a thing for the public to witness.

Albel's jaws twitched slightly. His good hand curled into a fist, but the damaged one didn't even stir, no matter how hard he tried to move it. He could no longer feel anything with this arm, not even pain or heat. The nerves had been burnt, destroyed almost ten years ago, along with his father's life. And just _what_ would his father say if he could see him now, disgraced and humiliated…? The exact opposite of everything he had been meant to be.

* * *

To Be Continued…

* * *

Author's Notes: I admit that this chapter contained an unhealthy dose of angst and Albel's whining; it was too much even for my own taste. Feel free to flame the contents, as well as my terrible update scheme.


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